Pork Sausage

I am tall-table young. Mum turns up the blue flames, lowers the thick sausages. Dripping crackles, the iron skillet is licked with fat, a nutritive sizzle. The meat finds its voice; a splutter of buttery smaze. The pork is in bloom, the animal inside the flesh disappearing, the meat opening florets of aroma. Mother turns, cheeks flushed, not looking at me, seeing only a man who will arrive soon, say’s out loud: “He will love these.” My stomach cramps with an acidic disappointment.